Chapter 40: “Mango Beer” Part 3

That classmate hadn’t spoken to her in ages. That day, she sat with her cheeks propped on her hands, chewing big bubble gum and blowing a bubble, answering without a hint of suspicion:

“You just say hi, of course. Like ‘good morning,’ ‘good afternoon,’ ‘good evening,’ ‘nice to meet you,’ that sort of thing.”

That classmate—the most outgoing girl in class—was Chi Buyu.

“Good evening. Nice to meet you, SpongeBob.”

Cui Qijin tucked those words into her heart, along with the colorful leaf taro she’d chosen and all her panic, nerves, and anticipation…

And headed out one night to a mall in Cheng Hua District.

It was some kind of sales event that evening, and the place was packed with jostling crowds. Someone bumped her colorful leaf taro, making the leaves sway. For one heartbeat, she hesitated. Why was she even doing this? SpongeBob Afraid of Water had once talked about meeting someone offline, and she’d thought it so risky… But now, why was she here?

Maybe she shouldn’t be.

She turned to leave.

Thump thump. Thump thump. Her footsteps headed for the mall exit.

Thump thump. Thump thump. It was starting to drizzle outside, turning everything misty.

Thump thump. Thump thump. She turned back, bewildered and at a loss, heading toward the photo sticker booth where they’d agreed to meet.

Thump thump. Thump thump. Why was there still a photo sticker machine in a mall like this?

Thump thump. Thump thump. It was so hard to find.

Thump thump. Thump thump. She rode the escalator up.

Thump thump. Thump thump. She let out a breath and hugged her colorful leaf taro tighter. There, by the photo sticker booth, stood a figure—in a skirt, left hand holding a Stitch keychain from some shop, right hand clutching flowers and a colorful leaf taro specimen. That was their signal; no way it was a mix-up.

Thump thump. Thump thump. The girl had her hair up in a cute messy bun, soft strands framing her face. The mall’s AC had turned her cheeks rosy, her ear tips pink.

Thump thump. Thump thump. Music started playing from some store—”Ordinary Friends” intro. The girl shifted, bored, turning her face sideways—

It was Chi Buyu.

Thump thump. Thump thump. The escalator reached the top. It really was Chi Buyu.

Thump thump. Thump thump. Cui Qijin instinctively ducked behind someone and, in her panic, hopped on the down escalator.

The whole mall buzzed with noise.

“Ordinary Friends” faded as she descended, but the rain outside pounded louder. The thumps in her chest didn’t stop—they grew fiercer. On the basement level, Cui Qijin stood frozen, blocking the way amid the crush of shoppers who bumped her shoulders again and again. Yet her mind wandered in a daze, like she was trapped in some surreal dream. How could…

How could it be someone she knew?

How could it be… Chi Buyu?

“So you just went home like that?”

Chen Wenran’s voice yanked Cui Qijin back from the memory like a stern leash.

Cui Qijin gripped her mango tighter.

She dipped her head. “Yeah,” she mumbled. “I just went home.”

She’d said it before—she had no real excuse.

Chen Wenran fell silent for a long moment, downing several gulps of beer. Her tone brimmed with frustration. “You didn’t even message Shuishui on QQ to say you weren’t coming? You just left her waiting?”

“I did.”

Chen Wenran’s expression softened a bit. “What did you say?”

“I said…”

Cui Qijin gazed at the colorful leaf taro blooming vibrantly on the balcony. She gave a faint smile, then after a pause, murmured in a daze,

“Maybe it didn’t matter what I said back then.”

Cui Qijin always left herself an out, and she didn’t see it as cowardice—just self-preservation.

So that day, she chose to go home first. No meeting. At least, she wouldn’t let Chi Buyu know she was the Mine from their chats—the one who sang “Mine Mine,” the Mai Mai.

The whole taxi ride, she agonized over how to explain breaking her promise to SpongeBob Afraid of Water. She remembered how SpongeBob Afraid of Water had wrestled with the idea alone for ages before finally asking. Cui Qijin had hesitated before agreeing, and afterward, the girl chattered daily on QQ about her preparations.

Every day, SpongeBob Afraid of Water’s first message counted down: seven days to go, six days… one day, twelve hours…

Rain lashed the windows outside. After much deliberation, Cui Qijin sent only:

【Sorry, I can’t make it today.】

She watched the message send, feeling a balloon inflating in her chest, filled with the relentless downpour, with nowhere to release the pressure. It swelled bigger, until she could barely breathe.

She had no idea how SpongeBob Afraid of Water would reply.

Even worse, the panic, nerves, and anticipation hadn’t vanished.

She dreaded no reply from SpongeBob Afraid of Water. She dreaded an immediate one. She dreaded a long silence.

She grew nervous over a single line of text.

She anticipated it too—hoping SpongeBob Afraid of Water wouldn’t read between the lines, wouldn’t spot her last-minute bailout, wouldn’t sense her panic, nerves, or hopes.

She didn’t know what kind of reply would make her feel better.

She brought the colorful leaf taro home intact, along with all her panic, nerves, and anticipation.

The rain didn’t let up for ages.

Once home, SpongeBob Afraid of Water messaged on QQ:

【Why?】

No rant, no pleading. Just “Why?”

The one question Cui Qijin couldn’t answer. Any excuse would do—SpongeBob Afraid of Water would believe her. Her feelings would stay hidden.

But she couldn’t come up with one.

So SpongeBob Afraid of Water persisted:

【If you don’t come, I’ll wait forever.】

This wasn’t a movie—nobody would really wait forever. Cui Qijin told herself that, over and over.

How could anyone be that foolish?

How could SpongeBob Afraid of Water be?

How could Chi Buyu be?

She could. When they were the same person, she could.

By the time Cui Qijin realized that, hours had passed since their meetup—rain had stopped, and QQ stayed silent.

She messaged: 【You’re not still there, are you?】

She added: 【Go home.】

Then: 【Don’t do this. It’s not worth it.】

No reply, even now.

Time had marched on.

Recounting it to Chen Wenran felt like telling someone else’s story.

Chen Wenran watched her through the twilight. “And after that?”

“After that?”

Cui Qijin sank into a long silence.

After that, after that.

Every story seemed to have one.

The TV droned on with another episode of that Taiwanese idol drama. Cui Qijin buried her face in her knees and stayed there a long time, her voice muffled and faint.

“The next day, Chi Buyu didn’t come to school. A close friend asked, and our homeroom teacher announced to the class that Chi Buyu had taken a week’s sick leave.”

“Sick leave?”

“…Yeah.”

Cui Qijin kept her face buried, as if drowning, sinking it into water. The suffocation made the next words a little easier somehow.

“I don’t know what time she got home that night, but she took a bad fall. Her leg was hurt bad, her face scraped up. Because… she has mild night blindness.”

Chen Wenran said nothing.

“No, not because of the night blindness.”

Cui Qijin rubbed her eyelashes against her pajama pants, leaving a damp spot.

Chen Wenran’s heart softened. She called out,

“Cui Qijin…”

Suddenly, Cui Qijin felt everything slipping from her grasp—the mango in her left hand, the beer can in her right, that unchangeable memory… her panic, her nerves, her desperate hopes.

She couldn’t hold on. She couldn’t…

She let it all crash to the floor, gathering dust and pain.

“No, it wasn’t the night blindness.”

She repeated it, as if flaying herself with every word, forcing it out again and again.

“It’s because of me. Because of me.”

A gentle touch came from her back. Chen Wenran patted it softly, listening as she repeated the words over and over, listening as she murmured “because of me,” only to deny it moments later.

“Not at all. It’s not because of you.”

How could it not be because of her? She knew that maybe these two things weren’t directly connected, but Chen Wenran was about to say as much anyway.

Still, she had represented her classmates in visiting Chi Buyu. She had seen Chi Buyu’s mother with eyes swollen red from crying, her father politely asking what kind of water she’d like to drink. She had heard Chi Buyu talk about loving mangoes, watched as someone peeled one for her and handed it over so naturally. Then, full of self-reproach, Chi Buyu had said to the others, “That night, I shouldn’t have listened to her and given her some personal space. I should have secretly gone to pick her up!”

She had seen Chi Buyu’s aunts and older female cousins rushing one by one to see her—straight from work sites, phones still pressed to their ears; from home, still in their slippers; from dates, dragging their dates along with them; from school, having begged off the hardest class to skip, PE.

On their faces was an urgency like nothing Cui Qijin had ever seen before—a kind of heartfelt distress. Their actions carried a generous, openhearted caution that Cui Qijin had never felt. The moment they arrived, they hugged Chi Buyu with aching tenderness, asking if there was anything she wanted to eat so they could go buy it for her. She saw Chi Buyu’s hospital room overflowing more and more with love.

It was all good love—steady, unwavering. Love that wouldn’t hurt Chi Buyu, that held nothing back. Not like hers, full of so many secrets, hopes, and fears. Not like hers, that came up with ideas like “only five minutes.” Not like hers, forever holding something back. Not like hers, born of cowardice, of the habit of always leaving herself an escape route, leaving Chi Buyu in a place of pain.

She had seen so much. Heard so much.

It was all the things she could never give.

She heard those who loved Chi Buyu speak in lingering fear: They said that branch back then had been just a centimeter from Shuishui’s eye—is that true?

She saw Chi Buyu, her face scraped and bandaged, a stiff neck brace around her throat, denying it awkwardly. “No way, how could it be? Mom’s just exaggerating.”

Then Chi Buyu’s mom, eyes still bloodshot, fed her a spoonful of eight-treasure porridge and said, “Those were your exact words to the paramedics, crying as you said them!”

Chi Buyu knew she was in the wrong.

So she turned those big, bright black eyes toward Cui Qijin. Seeing how stiff Cui Qijin looked, still forcing herself to sit up straight—even Chi Buyu frowning a little had people rushing forward to help her, telling her not to move recklessly.

Surrounded by all these people, by all this love, Chi Buyu bit into a piece of apple her mom had sliced and fed her. She patted Cui Qijin’s hand in a comforting gesture.

“I’m fine, Cui Muhuo.”

Then she said to her, “Thank you. Thanks for coming to see me on behalf of our classmates.”

She smiled, her eyes crinkling into crescent moons.

“I’m really happy.”

That was what she’d said then. She was really happy.

And in that instant, Cui Qijin thought, yes—that’s right. Chi Buyu already had so, so much love. Chi Buyu was happy now. In Chi Buyu’s life, joy always outweighed the pain.